


Morning Wood

by Atra Materia (TheDarkMaterial)



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean
Genre: Oral Sex, Other, object fetishization, self-play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-06-14
Updated: 2004-06-14
Packaged: 2017-10-06 07:05:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDarkMaterial/pseuds/Atra%20Materia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wee hours of the morn, Jack welcomes the Pearl back to his hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morning Wood

It was late. Or maybe it was early - it was _that_ sort of hour; the sort during which the moon had gone behind a cloud and the stars been covered by a similar haze, and there might have been a faint smudge of blue on the horizon, but you couldn't be sure.

It was probably closer to morning, when it came right down to it, but only a fool - or a man very devoted to his livelihood - would have called it that; sane people were all in their beds.

Needless to say, Jack Sparrow was _quite_ awake.

They'd dropped anchor earlier in the evening, when the winds had begun to die down. They were three days out from Port Royal with nary a hide, hair, nor flapping sail of another ship in sight, and it was evident by now that the high and mighty Commodore Snorington - er, Norrington - really _was_ a bit hen-pecked (or pussy-whipped, if you preferred - which Jack did), and wouldn't be coming after them. There'd been a bit of celebration - though it wasn't the first in those days, not by far - with the usual paraphernalia accounted to such: A swig of rum, a chunk of meat, Anamaria _almost_ swilling enough to lower her guard and her top - Jack on the receiving end of a swift slap for encouraging it.

He wasn't all that interested in Anamaria, really, but it was the sort of thing you did; you kept up appearances, pretended to have your cock up, and what didn't come up were a lot of questions. Oh, he had his other eccentricities, and everyone knew about those, but there were some things that were just better off kept private. So he'd made a joke and a grab, and waited for the crew to go to bed or pass out where they were, and eventually, he got exactly that - more-or-less. Mr Cotton was still awake, and wandering past the wheel now-and-then as he made his rounds, but - well -

Mr Cotton wasn't going to be telling anyone anything, now was he.

There was no real reason for Jack to be at the wheel, with the _Pearl_ bobbing gently where she slept in the middle of the endless blue, but then - there was no real reason for Jack _not_ to be at the wheel, and Jack never needed much of a reason for the things he did, anyway. She _was_ his reason, the worn and weathered ship, and he had her now, and that was all that mattered.

His hand set down in the space between the two topmost pegs, and he gave the wheel a little turn; just enjoying, for a moment, the way the wood felt beneath his skin - the way it flowed beneath his fingers, slid beneath his palm; the way the salt-stained digits nestled over it and in it, the way another man's hand might have cradled the mound above his lover's thighs.

Dark eyes cast to the left, gazing out over the black mirror the sea became at night; a sliver of moonlight visible on its glassy surface for barely an instant before the waves broke it apart, and the clouds reclaimed it. Slowly, his gaze drifted the other way; passing the helm and the deck and landing at last on the expanse of water on the right. Between them, there was nothing, no one; only Jack and his _Pearl._

He lowered his head, brushing his mouth to the tip of that topmost peg.

No sooner than his lips had touched the wood, he straightened; chuckling quietly.

"Shouldn't ye be doin' this t'me, love?"

His voice was low, wry, and lost on what remained of the breeze; and whether she had heard him or not, no response came. Undiscouraged, he bent again; lips still tinged with the aftertaste of rum parting to take the peg between. It had no head, not as such, but that didn't stop him from treating it as if it did; his tongue swirling around the swell in the carved wood.

Salt; salt and rum.

He closed his eyes; the hand not occupied by caressing the wheel lowering to his breeches. In his eagerness to undo the knots in the laces, his fingers fumbled; a heavy exhalation breathed through teeth gritted on wood. At last, the flaps fell open, and the digits dipped inside; finding their way with more ease to the shaft already hardening there. Roughened fingers brushed what might well have been the only unmarred - unscarred - skin on his body, still pink and baby-new, and he shuddered; half-turning to learn more securely on the wheel. Jack Sparrow might have been crazy, but he wasn't stupid. Not even the _Pearl_ could convince him to poke his prick between the splintering spokes of a rickety ship's helm - he wanted to use the thing later, after all.

His lips pressed to the peg; wrapping around it in some perverse mimicry of the sort of pleasures he'd been taught by Tortugan whores. As he drew back, his mouth sliding up the wood, his fingers slid down his member; tongue and tips reaching their respective heads at nearly the same moment. Freed of the breeches, his cock bobbed gently as his hand reversed; the _Pearl_ remained more stoic, giving the man no sign that she might be enjoying the coupling as much as he.

Frigid, though, she was not. Whatever quirk of genitalia it represented, the wood was warm and wet; like the breeze off the isles and the sea below and around. Another shiver twitched beneath Jack's flesh as his fingers arrived once more at the base of his shaft; kneading not only there, but dipping lower to tease the sac beneath. The wheel shifted slightly to the right, and he took this as encouragement - no, she wasn't frigid, just a hard sell. Quite a hard one, at that.

Smooth, she was, and she had that unusual taste; the taste no real woman could have had, no matter how many baths she took or how often she used her twat as a shotglass. The closest he could come to putting a finger on it was in the kiss of a concubine he'd once found on a ship coming out of India, back when he'd plundered that side of the world - foreign, exotic; spiced. She should have been sweet, perhaps - or maybe even a little bitter - but she wasn't, and she drove him wild. His hand quickened on his member, and he lapped hungrily at her peg; his hips rocking faintly now in time with the motion of the _Pearl._

It had been a long time since he'd seen her, since he'd had her, and despite the work those Tortugan whores had done on him more recently, there was something to be said for love over lust, and he knew he wasn't going to last long. Not this time. Not when he could feel her, when he could taste her; when she was real and true and solid against him instead of being a fantasy conjured up so he could make a working girl happy, thinking it was she Jack Sparrow wanted. His hands clenched on wood and flesh, and his teeth bit deep into the peg (now _there_ was something the whores wouldn't do); the shudder that racked his form a fierce one. His hips bucked; thrusting harshly forward against his hand as the hot, salty emissions of his release erupted from his member to spill not only over his fingers, but most likely down his breeches and onto the deck as well.

When rational thought returned, Cap'n Jack Sparrow was decidedly glad he wasn't the one who was going to be cleaning it up.

Another heavy breath left him; several moments more passing before his pulse slowed and he began to bring himself back under control. Pushing away from the wheel with a grunt, he pulled up his pants; fiddling with the laces until they twisted themselves into something resembling a knot and returning his attention to the _Pearl._

"Was that as good for ye as it was me, love?"

She said nothing, much as she always did, but her wheel spun; rocking gently back and forth for a few seconds until it came to rest into the position it had been in originally. Jack set his hand in the space between the two topmost pegs and gave her a pat; turning his eyes to the sky.

It was early, still - or maybe it was late. It was _that_ sort of hour; the sort in which the moon was peeking fearfully through the clouds and the stars had vanished under the haze, which was burning off in the faint smudge of red on the horizon.

Time enough for one more go. He had to do _something,_ after all, if he was going to get rid of that damnable morning wood.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Originally written for Linaelyn in response to her submission for the 'Salt' challenge at Pirates500-LJ - she came up with the idea, and I took it and ran like a salty dog with a golden bone.


End file.
